


Tales of the Apocalypse

by JoeLawson



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 14:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18813235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoeLawson/pseuds/JoeLawson
Summary: Five spent about forty years wandering through a post-apocalyptic world.  This is a collection of stories about his experiences.





	Tales of the Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> All right, so this is not strictly speaking an _Umbrella Academy_ fic per se. It’s a prequel of sorts. I’ve always loved short stories about the apocalypse or the world after an apocalypse, so this is about Five, wandering the world after he miscalculated his time jump. I’ve tried to cover a little of everything – from the beginning right until the Handler approaches Five and makes him the offer he can’t refuse, thus kickstarting the _Umbrella Academy_ storyline. Fair warning, I haven’t read the comics, so this is based on the Netflix series canon, liberally extended and embellished with my personal head canons. 
> 
> This is also the first story I've written in years. Fair warning. 
> 
> As always, I give permission to translate this into any language or do an audiofic of it, I’d just really, really appreciate it if you let me know so I can come and coo.

**Prelude**

The boy sat huddled in the corner of a crumbled building, knobby knees tucked up under his chin, thin arms clutching his legs like a safety line. It was dark and cold, except for the fires that burned in several of the ruins, some merrily, some with worrisome intensity. He’d picked a spot close to one of the fires that didn’t look like it was fueled by a gas line, so at least he wasn’t in imminent danger of being exploded to death or freezing, but the fire was providing an uneven kind of warmth. The front of his body was almost too warm while his back was covered in goosebumps where it was pressed against the cool wall. 

The dirty school uniform he was wearing didn’t provide much protection against the elements and it was already covered in ash, much like his dark hair. He’d wrapped a piece of fabric around his face, probably the remains of a curtain, and it helped a little, but it also felt like somebody was holding his mouth shut. It was making him more than a tad claustrophobic on top of everything else. 

Every part of him felt tender and sore, like he’d run for miles, like he’d screamed his lungs out, because he had. He’d kept it together for as long as he could, staggering through the ruins of his home, from one dead body to the next, gathering intelligence, trying to figure out what had happened, and then something in him had snapped and he’d bolted. He didn’t know how long he’d run, how long he’d yelled, searching for somebody, _any_ body, looking for the end of the devastation. There had to be an end. Whatever this had been, it couldn’t have been _everywhere_. There must be a radius to the horror, a safe zone beyond. So he’d run until he couldn’t anymore and then he’d kept walking until his legs had given out, but the picture had remained the same. The world was a smoking wasteland, the sky flat and gray, the earth scorched, the only sign that there had ever been life the bodies left behind. 

He swallowed down a bit of bile and forced himself to breathe steadily. _Come on_ , he thought, and clenched his fists. _Come on. Just one more time. Come on._ He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see the destruction around him and took a shaky breath. _Jump. Just. **Jump** , damn it._ And he tried. He tried so hard. His whole body strained with the effort of leaving this place, of going back to his own time, where everything was all right and everybody was still alive. Veins stood out at his temples. His fists tightened so much his knuckles creaked. His muscles trembled. Only the muscle deep inside, the one that counted, merely twitched weakly. He sensed a broken emptiness where a warm sort of pressure should have been, and nothing happened. 

He sobbed once, a dry, choked little sound, and pressed his face against his knees to muffle it. It felt unsafe, that single human noise in the quiet that surrounded him. No alarms, no sirens, no shouting or moans or fingers scrabbling against stone. Only the wind and the crackling of the fire. He was alone. For the first time in his short life, he was involuntarily, terrifyingly, entirely alone. 

 

**Year One: Extra Ordinary**

It was Vanya’s book that got Number Five over the worst. He found it in the ruins one day, would’ve passed it right by if the author’s name hadn’t snagged his attention. 

Vanya Hargreeves  
 _Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven._

It was… well written. Not _good_ per se, but interesting, an unexpected perspective. It was a riveting read. An uncomfortable read. Nobody liked to be called “aloof”, “arrogant” or “snide” by somebody close to them, but then again, she also described him as “scary smart”, “intensely focused”, and “snarky” and he could most definitely recognize himself in that. Vanya didn’t paint a flattering picture of any of them, really, but then, the whole thing read more like an outpouring of old hurts and resentment than an objective account of what life had been like at the Umbrella Academy. Five was sure it had been cathartic for Vanya to write it all down. Certainly therapeutic. However, he couldn’t imagine their siblings had appreciated her viewpoint. 

Five read the entire book in a day, hungrily devouring all the stories about his family before and especially after he’d left. It had been a few months for him, but for Vanya, it had been years. The pain of his leaving was blunted, the event part of a longer chapter about various confrontations between the siblings and Reginald Hargreeves. She wrote how she’d left out peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches for him, had left on the lights for him, for a while at least, and he might’ve sniffled a bit at that as he imagined making it back home to find those little offerings. He wanted a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich so badly. Hell, he would’ve been happy to hear Father’s familiar bellow by this point. 

It was exceedingly strange to read about all that had happened since he’d left, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t even slow down to digest the really painful revelations, such as Ben’s death and Klaus’ slide into addiction. In a way, it was a “what if” story for him, a fictional account. He hadn’t been there, so it hadn’t really happened, right? He was thirteen – no, wait, fourteen now – he couldn’t be learning about what had happened to his siblings at sixteen, eighteen, twenty. He couldn’t grieve for a brother who hadn’t died yet and had been dead for years at the same time. It did explain why he hadn’t found Ben’s body at the academy. It probably even explained why Vanya hadn’t been there either, if she’d left and then had probably severed whatever ties had remained with her tell-all book. 

He kept returning to _Extra Ordinary_. Partly to look for clues as to what had happened, if there had been signs Vanya had missed, but that might be visible to him. He didn’t find anything, though. Only the bitter words of a girl who’d been cast aside and made to feel useless by the people she loved. The book certainly represented an ending, but it didn’t offer any hints about the real apocalypse. 

The other reason why Five kept coming back to Vanya’s writings and seemed incapable of leaving the book behind was the many stories about his family it contained. Five’s present was full of darkness and destruction. It was easy to forget anything but the daily struggle for survival and he very much didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to be reduced to an animal scavenging in the ruins of the world. He wanted to remember why it was so important to keep working on his powers, on his equations, why he _had_ to find his way back. Not only because _back_ was a better time, but also because _back there_ his family was still alive and bickering. Back there, Ben was heading toward a terrible death, Klaus was losing his grip, Diego was closing off his gentle side, Allison was dreaming of becoming a famous actress, Luther was turning into a blind follower, and Vanya was feeling so neglected she’d end up writing her goddamn biography at age twenty-seven, which was embarrassing at best. 

It wasn’t the most positive of mental pictures the book painted, but Five didn’t care. It hadn’t been the best of lives while he’d still lived it, but it had been his and the damaged, quarrelsome people he’d shared it with had been his, too. He was going to get them back. He was going to prevent all this bad shit from happening. He was going to keep Ben alive. He was going to kick some sense into Klaus… and probably the rest of them, while he was at it. They all needed a good kicking, just look at the kind of crap they got up to without Five there to keep them in line. 

He kept the book close and every time he felt himself falter, he opened it and found himself the most infuriating passage possible to fire up his determination to get back there and kick some ass. It worked for him. 

 

**Year Two: Voices**

Gravel crunched under the soles of Five’s boots and the wheels of his cart and he hummed thoughtlessly in time with the rhythmic shifting of grit. No melody, no real tune, just human noise, brain static. A voice to fill the quiet. 

Dolores’ voice didn’t count. Dolores was always in the back of his mind, observing, commenting on everything, a strange mix of remembered people. He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t mad; he was well aware Dolores’ voice was his own thoughts, his way of handling the complete and utter loneliness of his new situation. He was completely fine with that. Anything that helped him cope was all right in his book. So, sometimes, Dolores sounded like Mom. Sometimes, more like Vanya. She rarely sounded like Allison, but he thought that was probably because Allison’s voice was more of a tool, a weapon. Dolores most resembled her when they were disagreeing or when shit was going down, which wasn’t happening that often anymore now that he was getting used to everything. Getting used to everything _again_ , he amended ruefully. Acceptance, like grief, came in waves. Sometimes, he was fine. Focused. Totally in the game. Then, something would trigger him – a sight, a sound, a particular texture – and there he’d go again, straining to go back, refusing to believe, half-mad with terror and panic. 

It had been worse in the beginning, but the ticking counter in the depths of his brain, adding up days and weeks and months automatically, without failure, had passed the years’ mark twice now and there was only so much strength he could waste on emotion. The wasteland that remained of his world was cold and perilous. Five had learned to be careful and alert, mostly by almost dying a few too many times. The dangers were manifold. The ground itself could be treacherous, the wind carried ash and all kinds of sharp debris, the buildings where he foraged were unstable ruins. Not every living thing had perished and what remained was every bit as hungry and desperate as he was. 

He wondered, sometimes, if he’d have survived the apocalypse had he been there when it happened. Of all of them, he would’ve had the best chances, he thought, but the truth was that he still didn’t know what exactly had happed, only that it had been fast and it had been devastating. Maybe he could’ve jumped out of the way. Maybe not. Looking at how even the sturdiest buildings had been reduced to rubble, he might’ve jumped from the frying pan into the fire. And if he’d time-jumped… well. He _had_ time-jumped, hadn’t he? Fat lot of good that had done. No, surviving the event probably wasn’t an option. _Preventing_ it, on the other hand, that was a solid plan. All he needed to do was live long enough to figure out how to go back. 

The cart he was pulling carried what he’d thought he’d need on this latest expedition as well as the essentials, such as Dolores and his copy of _Extra Ordinary_. He’d roamed further and further from his home base in the remains of the Library – capital L, because it was _his_ , because it was _important_ , because it was the only source of both shelter and distraction he’d discovered so far – and it had proved deeply impractical to carry Dolores on his back. It was a reassuring weight, yes, but also a hindrance. He’d almost died twice because of her, which was, of course, not her fault, not her fault at all, but he’d learned from his mistake. The cart offered room for her to be comfortable and for him to lug more stuff than he could carry and, most importantly, he could drop the handle any time and move freely. 

“You all right back there, Dolores?” he asked over his shoulder, his words muffled by the folds of the tattered silk shawl he was using to shield his face from dust and the ever-present glass slivers tossed around by the wind. 

Dolores was fine, she let him know, everything was peachy-keen, though maybe he shouldn’t have brought so many books. Well, yes, the books were unwieldy and heavy, but the cheesy drivel ones he’d already read made for excellent tinder and the more challenging ones helped him stay sane and were thus of utmost importance. Couldn’t survive in the post-apocalyptic wilderness if your brains stagnated. He needed to be on top of his game. More importantly, he needed to figure out what the hell had gone so wrong and why… and how to jump back in time and prevent it. It had to be possible. He’d time-hopped before, he could do it again, he just had to figure out where he’d gone wrong and how to correct for his miscalculations. 

The most concerning thing was that he’d wrenched something during that last jump. He’d felt it even before the catastrophic reality had registered; a twist and crack inside like an injury, like something snapping out of place. He hadn’t even been able to move through linear space afterwards and more than two years later was still limited to a pathetic jump-distance of a few inches. For someone who’d teleported back and forth through an entire block of buildings with a labyrinthine layout and nine other people moving willy-nilly through the property, it was a humbling experience. 

No matter. He’d adjust. He’d recover. He’d figure out where he’d gone wrong and he was going to go back and fix this entire mess, so help him. 

Food first, Dolores reminded him. 

Yes. Food first. Priorities. He straightened his shoulders and walked faster. 

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

 

**Year Three: Burial**

Number Five was crying. 

He didn’t know how that had happened. He’d been fine. It was the anniversary of the Event, true, according to the newspaper he’d found at least, but it had been three years and he’d been _fine_. He had a belly full of warm food, thanks to the stash of MREs he’d unearthed, he’d found a source of reasonably safe drinking water in the form of an ancient well with a hand-pump in a basement not that far from his headquarters, he’d even discovered the remnants of a warehouse and been able to replenish his entire wardrobe, including, thankfully, new boots. Growth spurts were a bitch. All in all, everything had been copacetic. 

Unfortunately, then he’d been a stupid idiot and gone back to the academy, thinking that he was in a stable enough place now to finally go bury his siblings. He was doing so much better mentally and emotionally, wasn’t he? Even Dolores agreed. The broken bits of the Umbrella Academy were unfinished business and he was ready to put an end to that. He’d put on his new boots and grabbed some tools and he’d gone back there, but instead of orderly heaps of Luther and Klaus and Diego and Allison, what he found was a mess. They were strewn all about. Something had eaten them and left their remains a scattered mess of bone and dried-out tissue. He couldn’t even tell who’d been who anymore. 

He didn’t know what he’d _expected_ , was the thing. For them to still be waiting for him as he’d left them so long before? Maybe even look as nearly-unmarred as they had back then? He’d known there were packs of feral dogs in the area, but he’d never thought…

His hand clenched around the glass eye he carried in his left pocket. He should’ve looked for more clues when he’d had the chance. He shouldn’t have left them there, exposed and vulnerable. But even Five had his limits and that day, he’d hurtled past them straight into a kind of madness he still hadn’t quite shaken. He hadn’t had the strength to do right by them, not then, and his self-preservation instinct had made him turn away and tend to himself first. He’d needed time. He hadn’t expected it’d take him three years to return, and now… 

He looked at the pathetic remains. They could’ve been anybody and yet. 

And yet. 

Tears blurring his vision, Five gripped the hilt of the shovel he’d brought and started to dig. He could still see them. All of their faces, familiar and strange at the same time, no longer the teenagers he’d known but adults. He’d always believed he’d be right there with them, grow up alongside them, but instead they’d reached adulthood sometime in the nebulous time between his first time-jump and the end of the world, and Five was only slowly catching up long after they were gone. 

He was digging into hard earth in what must’ve been the inner courtyard before everything had gone to shit, occasionally brushing aside chunks of metal from what might’ve been some sort of statue once. Maybe Pogo had finally put up the butt-ugly faun sculpture he’d coveted. Good for him. Good for—

Grief hit him like a fist in the stomach. He missed Pogo. He missed Mom. He didn’t really miss Father, but he missed his siblings, every screwed-up, bitchy, annoying one of them. He missed mocking Luther’s attempts at leadership, missed Diego’s porcupine exterior and soft underbelly, so easy to rile up; he hadn’t been on his toes waiting for Allison to try and rumor him for over a year now and that was weirdly uncomfortable. He wanted to sit by Vanya’s side again and listen to her play her violin or talk books with Ben. Ben would’ve approved of Five’s lair at the library. He also would’ve been appalled by Five’s decision to burn the books he no longer needed. Klaus… he thought that Klaus would’ve gone mad in a world inhabited almost exclusively by ghosts. Of all his siblings, Five missed Klaus the least, probably because he so often imagined he saw the shade of his brother from the corner of his eye, walking beside him. It was always adult Klaus, never the thirteen-year-old version of him. Weird, right? 

He allowed himself the tears. There was nobody left to judge him for them. He still wasn’t one to cry a lot – this was the third time in as many years, and the first two times it had been shock more than anything that’d caused the deluge – but he was fast learning how to take care of himself. If it felt like you needed to do something or break more, do it. Talk to the mannequin. Pet the dead dog before you eat it. Write down the formulas you’re working on to visualize them better. Cry when you bury your dead. 

He sniffled and went to collect the remains, or what he could find of them. There wasn’t enough left to account for them all. Four skulls, plenty of bones. Some crushed bits of machinery that might’ve been part of Mom once. If Pogo had been there, he was buried too deep in the rubble to locate and the same, Five assumed, went for Father. He remembered seeing Luther, Allison, Diego, and Klaus, so that must’ve been the four skulls, but he hadn’t seen Vanya and there were no traces of her anywhere close by. He should’ve looked harder that first day, but, in hindsight, he should’ve done a lot of things differently. It wouldn’t matter, once he’d found a way to reverse it. In a way, none of this mattered. He’d go back and he’d change it. He would. There was no other option. 

This was all a “what if” and if the tears felt a little too real, well, they only served to strengthen his purpose. 

 

**Year Ten: Moving Day**

It was time to go. 

Five sighed and looked around his sanctuary for the last time. He’d read every book he’d been able to rescue. He’d found every stash of supplies tucked away in a ten-mile radius. He’d dug up every shred of information about that last day available. His jump capabilities had increased to several feet of distance. Not quite where he’d been before, but if there was anything he had in abundance, it was time to practice. He’d get there. He’d conquer space and then he’d start working on conquering time. Carefully. Smartly. With plenty of preparation. He couldn’t do the math in his head yet and he’d been stupid, jumping on instinct before. The keyword here was patience. 

Where are we going, Dolores asked when he tucked her into his cart, between the water supply and the bad weather gear. To the bunker site in Missouri or Washington D.C.?

“Washington D.C.,” Five said, squinting at the sky. Wouldn’t want to head out only to be caught out by a dust storm. “I want to check out the Library of Congress.” 

Dolores pointed out that it was a long way to Washington, but at least not as far as Missouri, so, good choice. She was starting to sound more like a person of her own rather than a part of Five or an amalgamation of remembered voices, he noted. That probably wasn’t a good sign, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was all alone. Let him have some company. 

He idly scratched at the rosy scar on his arm. Loose soil and a piece of rebar had almost cost him his limb, but Five was hard to kill and he’d memorized enough medical books to take care of his own injuries. Well. That, and he had a decent stash of medical supplies. Hard to do stitches if you didn’t have the equipment. Maybe that was his real superpower, he thought. Finding supplies. Sniffing out useful things. Also, having a high pain threshold. 

Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your family, Dolores said, no accusation in her tone, just curiosity. 

“Nah.” Five grabbed the handle of his cart. “I’ll see them again soon. This is temporary.” 

Because he was going to crack that bitch of an equation and the thing in him that made him capable of _jumping_ was going to heal and all this was going to be a bad dream. Until then, he had Dolores. 

Yes, you do, Dolores cooed. 

“Do you want to say goodbye to the others?” Five asked, because there’d been three mannequins who’d survived the apocalypse mostly intact and he’d made sure to take Dolores to them to visit every few months. After all, he knew what it was like to miss your family. 

No, I’m good, Dolores said. Let’s get going. 

So they went. Neither of them looked back. 

 

**Year Thirteen: Micah**

He met Micah and his guns when he stumbled over the man’s bunker in the middle of a vast field of broken stumps that must’ve been an impressive forest once. Micah, he learned quickly, was a lot crazier than Five, which was saying something by that point. The first clue was when Micah kept calling him “Johnny”. The biggest clue was when he found out that Micah’s version of Dolores was the mummified body of what Five strongly suspected to be the original “Johnny”. Micah lugged that thing around in a ratty trekking backpack, so Five only realized why he kept talking to the bundle when they sat down for a hearty meal of roasted cockroaches and a long expired can of ravioli and Micah unzipped the pack to let the corpse “chat” with Dolores. 

There had been a time when that would’ve been Five’s cue to make his excuses and get the fuck out of Dodge, but he hadn’t seen another human being since the guy who’d tried to gut him and turn him into stew. He was a little starved for contact, no pun intended, and a lot used to madness and disgusting sights, so Five decided to chance it. He could leave whenever he wanted to, after all, and Micah wasn’t likely to follow since he was determined to “sit this thing out” in his bunker. 

In the end, the time with Micah was surprisingly entertaining. Micah’s bunker was loaded with guns of all kinds and shapes and even more ammunition. When Micah found out that Five only had theoretical knowledge of firearms, he was honestly offended and spent the next few months teaching his new Johnny how to handle guns and rifles. How to clean them, keep them functional under bad conditions (such as the entire world now), and, of course, how to shoot them. Number Five had never been a huge fan of guns as such; he prided himself on his intellect and his ability to think his way out of problems, but the past few years had added a physical component to his survival skills. He’d become quick on his feet, strong and agile, and out of necessity proficient with a slingshot (also useful in that he could never run out of ammunition). He was amazed at how well his mathematical approach to taking aim translated to hitting shit with a rifle or a handgun. He was a dead shot, as Micah called it, and his praise made Five feel giddy and warm, though he tried to brush it off. 

Micah also had quite a collection of moonshine that he introduced Five to, much to Dolores’ disapproval. The alcohol muted her voice a little, made her sound funny and distorted. Five thought it was hilarious. Dolores didn’t share that opinion. She didn’t appreciate being relegated to the background. After all, wasn’t she Five’s most important companion? Yes, yes, she was, so Five tried not to drink too much, even though he liked the way everything became somehow less important when he did. He could do with a little less urgency sometimes. 

The bunker provided shelter, Dolores and Micah provided company, and the guns provided a distraction. It was fine for a while, especially if you ignored Micah’s weirder habits, such as his occasional preoccupation with his pet corpse, the nightly crying jags, and his obsession with his CB radio. He was convinced that he heard people answering him, but the radio was long dead and didn’t even produce static anymore. Five was so glad for the presence of a mostly non-hostile human being that he simply accepted these things. So Micah wasn’t entirely sane. So what. Neither was Five. 

In retrospect, it was amazing that it lasted for as long as it did. Five spent almost half a year with Micah, but when the worst of the spring rains was over, he started to get itchy feet again. The break had been needed and useful, but he couldn’t forget his mission and Micah couldn’t teach him about quantum mechanics or fourth dimension theories. He couldn’t teach him more about guns either. Dolores was all for leaving and Five couldn’t stop thinking that whatever was left of the Library of Congress probably wasn’t improving as time went on. He could be losing valuable intel while he was sitting on his ass in some bunker west of Baltimore. 

Micah took his announcement surprisingly well. “Let me ask my guy in Laurel how the roads are lookin’ out there,” he said, and went to fetch his CB radio. 

His “guy in Laurel” was every bit as imaginary as every other “guy” and “gal” he spoke with, but Five merely rolled his eyes, already focused on collecting all his stuff and wondering if he could get Micah to part with a rifle or two and some ammo. He almost didn’t hear the click of the safety being thumbed off, but instinct made him react before he could think and he jumped through space, a good foot to the side. The bullet smacked into the wall next to Dolores’ head. If Five had still been there, it would’ve slammed through his spine and torn a hole into him the size of a quarter, probably killing him on the spot. 

“What the _fuck_ , Micah?” he bellowed, but Micah had left the room, gone bye-bye, his eyes empty and wild. 

“Stand still, Johnny,” he whispered, sighting down the barrel again. “It’ll be over in a sec. Can’t let you go out there, it’s too dangerous. Gonna make you stay.” 

He pulled the trigger, but Five was faster. He jumped to the back of the room, behind Micah, grabbed a Glock and a magazine and had the gun loaded and ready to fire by the time Micah had managed to turn around, frowning in confusion. 

“Where’d you—” Micah said, and fired. “—go?” 

“Right here,” Five said coolly from his left, aimed for the head and pulled the trigger. 

Micah dropped like a sack of potatoes. His blank eyes stared at the tattered backpack leaning against the table. Five thought that perhaps there was something like relief there, but mostly Micah’s face was empty. 

His stomach turned, worse than the first time he’d slaughtered a dog, worse than the time he’d killed the wannabe-cannibal. The dog had been for survival. The cannibal had been self-defense and outrage. This was the first time he’d put down somebody whom he’d known, and he didn’t like it. 

He tried to kill you first, Dolores said. You had to do it. 

“I know,” Five said quietly. He stayed very still for a moment, listening to his body, unsure about whether he’d have to vomit or not. His belly roiled but decided not to give up the goods. He appreciated it. You didn’t waste food in a world where edible things were so scarce. 

Once he’d calmed down a bit, Five pulled Micah’s body over to the table so he could lie next to Johnny, but didn’t bother closing his eyes. He sighed. “Crazy bastard,” he muttered, not without affection. After all, Micah had been good to him for the most part. Except for the attempted murder, of course, but Five understood madness a little better than was probably okay. 

When he left, he took what he needed and two bottles of moonshine just because. 

Dolores didn’t complain. 

 

**Year Twenty: The Storm**

One of the things Five had never expected to miss desperately was the weather report. It would’ve been so useful to have an idea about what was coming. The first few years after the Event, the sky had been full of ash and dirt, the sun a rare sight. Twenty years in, wind and rain had cleared the air and Five was back to experiencing something like normal weather. Unfortunately, normal weather on the East Coast included storms. 

“What the hell?” Five murmured, squinting in the pale sunlight. Something was brewing on the horizon. It looked like a rain front, but bigger than what he’d seen before. He shifted his weight on the wall he’d climbed, tempted to turn even more to get a better look, but thought better of it. His toehold was precarious at best, as it was. He wouldn’t even have risked the ascent in the first place but for the nest snuggled into the corner of the razed building right above him. The promise of fresh eggs had been too much to resist. 

What’s going on, Dolores asked from her spot in the cart down on ground level. 

“Everything’s fine,” Five called. He glanced at the dark clouds once more, uncomfortable, then turned back to the nest. Almost there. He could almost taste the yolks already. He stretched out his arm, reached—

—and the ledge broke. 

Five _jumped_. Up. Grab the eggs. Down. Quickly, before he could actually fall and pick up velocity. He still hit the ground hard, but it didn’t matter. This was the furthest he’d jumped since the Event. He laughed, a triumphant bark of sound, three seagull eggs in his hand, unbroken. 

“Look at that, Dolores,” he said. “We’re gonna dine like kings tonight.” 

What did you see up there, Dolores replied, unimpressed by his feat, because she didn’t eat and didn’t quite understand hunger. You looked worried. 

“Just a storm front moving in,” Five said, but his gut instinct was stirring again. Something about those rainclouds had looked really sinister. “Let’s go back to the vault.” 

They’d found shelter in a basement bank vault near the Library of Congress. Somebody had been there before them and for some obscure reason had cleaned out the safety deposit boxes. What they thought they were doing with valuables in a world where money had no more worth was beyond him, but the open niches were ideal for storing books, so he wasn’t complaining. He stowed the eggs in the folds of his extra jacket, grabbed the handle of his cart, and set out toward the library again.

* * *

By early afternoon, Number Five had abandoned his plans to dig into the basement of the James Madison Memorial Building and was glaring out into the heavy rain instead. The wind was howling around the ruins of Washington D.C., still picking up speed. Bigger and bigger pieces of debris were flying through the air. 

What if it’s a hurricane, Dolores asked. He’d propped her up against the wall in the back of the vault. She should be safe back there, but they had no way of barring the door and it was starting to worry Five. 

“It’s not a hurricane,” Five claimed, though he had no idea whether or not it was a hurricane and suspected it might indeed be one. “And even if it is, we should be safe down here.” 

If you say so. 

“I say so.” 

Well, then.

* * *

It was hard to tell whether it was getting darker because the hour was getting later or because of the weather. The wind had long turned into a storm; the last thing Five had seen before he’d retreated down the stairs and the hallway into the vault had been the burnt-out carcass of a car sliding by, sparks flying as its metal frame screeched over the cracked concrete. 

He sat huddled next to Dolores on the cold floor, wishing for a light to banish the green-tinged darkness and distract him from the sounds outside. The storm was _loud_ and the amount of rain pouring from the sky was slowly becoming a concern. They were lucky in that the wind was coming from the southeast and their shelter was opening into the northwest, but still rivulets of water were making their way down the stairs and toward the vault. 

Weirdly, the situation made Five think of his family. He remembered sitting in the living room downstairs with his siblings as thunder rumbled outside and lightning flashed across the sky. Allison had huddled next to Luther on the big couch, trying to look scared so he’d put his arm around her, and Five had pretended to gag at the sight. Ben and Vanya had occupied the second couch, both of them staring out of the windows with wide eyes and matching smiles. They’d loved storms. Klaus had had the hardest time, sitting scrunched-up in the armchair, gaze fixed on the empty air in front of him, while Diego tried to distract him with boasts of his latest target practice and a knife balanced on the tip of a finger. 

In the murky dark, Five felt oddly close to them, as if he could reach out and touch any one of his siblings. The static electricity in the air made him tingly and tense, something deep inside reacting to the forces of nature outside. He stretched that invisible muscle that allowed him to jump through space and time and shivered. Maybe. Maybe. He’d spent the past few days integrating new formulas into his equations. It was all fresh in his mind. Not enough for a big jump, for sure, but a little one? Just a tiny jump? His belly cramped with fear and anticipation. Was this it? Could he? Should he? Maybe? _Maybe?_

Don’t, Dolores said, somewhere in the back of his mind. You’re not ready yet. Don’t. 

But the storm was whipping up dust and debris outside, howling with a thousand voices, and the pressure was rising so much he could _feel_ it, like a touch against his skin. He breathed in, slowly. Held his breath. 

Don’t, Dolores implored. 

Five jumped.

* * *

Outside, the burnt-out car slid across the cracked cement, sparks flying from its metal frame as it screeched across the ground. 

Inside, Five breathed out. 

It wasn’t nearly far enough. He was a long way from going home. But for a second there, between one breath and the next, as he’d slid a few minutes into the past, it had felt like he could almost see them. He pressed his fingers against the Umbrella Academy tattoo on his wrist and smiled. 

 

**Year Twenty-Eight: Savages**

“Bye, baby!”

The boot collided with Dolores’ head and broke it into a hundred pieces. Her beautiful face caved in, only half an eye remaining to gaze up at her killer. 

“No!” Five roared, turning toward her. His opponent used his distraction to haul off and smash his fist against Five’s… well, it would’ve been his temple, but Five blinked out of existence before it could connect.

* * *

“Bye, baby!”

The foot aimed at Dolores’ head shattered under the impact of a close-range bullet and the man who’d tried to destroy Five’s only companion fell back with a high-pitched shriek. Five swung the rifle around and pulled the trigger again. 

The second man dropped his club and hit the ground. He didn’t scream. He panted and clutched at his stomach. 

“Roland,” he rasped. 

Presumably-Roland was still howling. Five turned, aimed, and shut him up with a bullet to the head. They were good, the two of them, they’d snuck up on him, but their guns weren’t worth shit and their skinny frames were moved mostly by willpower and sheer malice. He knew the type. He didn’t meet people often, but there was a reason why he was still traveling alone after all this time. 

The gut-shot man hissed and pulled another gun from his belt. It looked in no better condition than the shotgun he’d used to break Five’s ribs, but Five was taking no chances. He bared his teeth in pain and fury and planted a bullet right between the man’s eyes. 

“Bye, baby,” he snarled. 

Kick him, Dolores said. For me. I don’t have feet and I really want to kick him. 

So Five limped over there and kicked a corpse for his mannequin, because why not.

* * *

There were more of them, a small band of half-starved men and women dressed in rags and armed with badly maintained guns, long knives, and clubs in all shapes and forms. Five circled around them, his cold gaze taking in the old blood spatters on their clothes, the hungry light in their eyes, the fact that they were mostly carrying close-range weapons. They were following the trail Five’s cart had left in the dirt, wary now that they’d heard the shots in the distance, but undeterred by the possible demise of their advance party. 

He couldn’t skip through space anymore, the time-jump having drained his strength, but he found himself a good spot and then picked them off one by one, hand steady, breathing carefully. _In_. Shot. _Out_. Shot. _In_. Shot. _Out_. Shot. _In_. Shot. _Out_. Shot. 

Diego would’ve been proud of him. Appalled. But proud. 

Five didn’t miss once. He’d had practice. 

 

**Year Thirty-Two: Mantras**

He lost Vanya’s book in a flash flood. He’d had the choice to grab the book or grab Dolores and the book didn’t talk to him. _Extra Ordinary_ was gone and with it, the tentative beginnings of the equation that would lead him back, to a time before the Event. 

No matter, he could do it again. He had time. And until then, he’d have to remember on his own.

* * *

Number One had been strong. 

Number Two had had impeccable aim. 

Number Three had been able to mind-fuck people. 

Number Four had seen ghosts. 

Number Six had been a conduit for some elder god. 

Number Seven had been ordinary.

* * *

Luther had been a pain in the ass, but he’d always tried to do right by them. 

Diego had been a hothead, but he’d been sensitive and sweet underneath the bluster. 

Allison had been an arrogant little shit, but she’d cared for them deeply. 

Klaus had been fickle and downright bitchy at times, but he’d been the most creative of them, never boring. 

Ben had been moody, but he’d also been steadfast and hard to impress. 

Vanya had been clingy, but she’d been kind.

* * *

Things worth fighting for were peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches and coffee (oh, how he missed caffeine) and intact buildings. Running water. _Warm_ water. _Fresh_ water. Indoor plumbing. Razors. Washing machines. Food, readily available, in all flavors and temperatures. Music. Beds. Refrigerators. Pizza. The feeling of safety.

* * *

Number One had been strong. 

Number Two had had impeccable aim. 

Number Three had been able to mind-fuck people. 

Number Four had seen ghosts. 

Number Six had been a conduit for some elder god. 

Number Seven had been ordinary.

* * *

Luther had been tall, even as a kid. Humongous as an adult. Deeply insecure in spite of it. 

Diego had been handsome. As an adult, he’d had a huge scar on the side of his head, but Five couldn’t remember on which side. 

Allison had been elegant, always impeccably dressed. She’d had a gorgeous smile. 

Klaus had had the dramatic flair of a drag queen and a deft hand with make-up. He’d used both to cover up how broken he was inside. 

Ben had had the driest sense of humor. His sarcasm had been biting and awesome. 

Vanya had looked innocent, but she’d been sly as a fox. She’d been skinny, but tough as old shoe leather. Of all of them, he’d have liked to have her with him the most.

* * *

Things worth remembering were mom’s pancakes. The tap-tap-tap of Pogo’s walking stick. The loose board next to his bed where he’d stashed the chocolate-covered espresso beans he’d hoarded. The way he’d had to veer sideways to make up for the extra stairways in the building when jumping between floors.

* * *

Months later, he found a new copy of _Extra Ordinary_ in a plastic box stuffed with books in a ruin somewhere in the Midwest. He’d decided to go see if things were as bad on the West Coast and had been following the bleached, cracked band of the I 40, first on foot, then with a recumbent bicycle he’d liberated from a flattened bike store together with several repair kits and bicycle pumps. It took him a while to find a good way to attach the cart, but it was worth the hassle. Dolores loved it, too. 

Whoever had bought and then stored away Vanya’s book had likely never read it; it was in pristine condition. So of course, the first thing Five did was grab his pencil and start recreating his equation in the margins and between the lines. Every word in the book, every passage, every bit of dialogue, was a marker, a piece of code, a part of the puzzle that was going to have to be his most precise jump ever. He couldn’t afford any errors. If he fucked up and popped up right in the middle of the Event, he was almost certainly going to die an ignominious death, like a mole who’d poked his head out of the wrong hole in a game of Whac-A-Mole. Five did not intend to go out like that. He could wait for another year or so, until he got it right. It’d be worth it. 

He touched the glass eye in his pocket, a gesture as habitual as checking on Dolores and his remaining rifle. He didn’t know enough about the Event, but damn it, he’d figure it out. He had plenty of clues. All he needed was a chance. A few years’ time. Hell, he’d take a few days, if that was all he could manage. 

Fact of the matter was, he was going back. He was going to see his family again. He was going to prevent the apoca-fucking-lypse and his fucking siblings were going to fucking live. They probably wouldn’t be any happier afterward, but they’d be alive to bitch and moan, the way it was supposed to be. 

Failure was not an option. 

Failure was _not_ an option.

* * *

Number One had been strong. 

Number Two had had impeccable aim. 

Number Three—

 

**Year Thirty-Eight: California Dreaming**

The thing was… the thing was, he wasn’t _sure_. He couldn’t be sure. He’d spent most of his life wandering through the hellscape that was this post-apocalyptic world, with no company but Dolores, who’d never known his family. He had the book, true, but he knew he couldn’t use it as his bible. This was Vanya’s take on his siblings, a biased take from a hurt young woman, and he knew that, he _knew_ that, but it was hard to remember it sometimes. His own memories of his family were distorted by time and, yes, Vanya’s book. He _thought_ he remembered what they’d all looked like, what they’d _been_ like, but he wasn’t _sure_ anymore. He’d caught himself thinking of something that had happened, fondly, and then realized he hadn’t even been there, it was something Vanya had described, they’d been in their early twenties at that point and he’d been long gone. 

It really had hit him when he’d reached the coast and tried to imagine his siblings’ reactions to the slate-gray expanse of the ocean before him and he just… couldn’t. He remembered their adult faces, because they’d been burned into his mind when he found them dead, and he remembered their abilities and some of their traits, but the details were gone. Had Klaus liked chocolate? Had Diego been the one to clog Father’s toilet that one time or had that been Ben? What had Allison’s mind-fuck phrase been? Something about gossip? Had Luther been a baseball fan or had he preferred football? Had it been a sport in the first place? Had he been a _fan_ of anything? 

He knew most about Vanya, because he had Vanya’s words to remind him, but had Vanya ever really been this neglected and lonely or was that just the way she’d chosen to write this? They would’ve noticed, wouldn’t they? They’d been the good guys, after all. Right? That’s what they’d been taught. Even Five, who felt like he probably really wasn’t a good guy at heart, at least not after all that he’d done to survive. 

He tried to imagine talking to any of them. It was something he’d done a lot in the beginning, he knew that. He’d spent hours “talking” to Father, too, criticizing him, accusing him of all the shit he’d done wrong, all the ways he’d screwed them up. Had Father had a beard? Or a moustache? He’d had glasses, that much Five knew, but he hadn’t worn them all the time. Five had had conversations in his head with Pogo, who’d been his voice of reason before Dolores had come into play, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall what Pogo’s voice had sounded like. Or Mom’s. Mom was a silent presence in his memory, an always smiling specter moving about with a feather duster in her hand and no clear purpose except for cooking delightful food and being there. He knew she’d been blonde only because she’d been the caricature of a 1950ies housewife from an old ad brought to life, and the all-American ideal had been white and blonde. 

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. He’d see them all again and then there’d be no more guessing games, he’d recall everything. Everything was going to be fine once he made it back. He didn’t doubt he was going to get home somehow, some way, but his own reassurances to himself were starting to sound a little bit hollow. The world he lived in wasn’t a bad dream anymore, it was his world, his life. It was more real to him than what had been before, because he’d been thirteen when he’d left and he was fifty-one now and starting to feel it, too. His joints ached when he got up after a night spent sleeping on the ground and it took him a while to limber up. He was covered in scars that pulled and ached sometimes. His reflexes were still good and so was his eyesight and his aim, but he figured he should probably hurry up with the math and figure out how to get back soon, or he would be too useless or too dead to prevent anything. 

You’re still doing good, Dolores told him, reassuringly, serenely. Still on top of the food chain, where you belong. 

“Thanks, Dolores,” he said, and he did feel a bit better about it all. 

It helped that there was so much green here, fertilized by all kinds of ash, growing from between the cracks and all over the hard-packed earth further inland. He’d seen deer for the first time in ages, a whole herd of them, and it gave him a ridiculous amount of hope. The world was coming back. Slowly, carefully, and probably without humans this time, but the wasteland wasn’t barren everywhere. 

Do you want to stay here, Dolores asked. It’s kind of nice. 

“Yeah,” Five said, and breathed in deeply. “Let’s stay for a while.” 

And they did. Until he got itchy feet again. 

The equation still wasn’t complete. He needed more data and for that, he needed to travel. So Five packed up his things and put Dolores in her place of honor in the cart. He hitched the bike to the cart, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and set out once more. Might as well go see what the South was like. 

 

**Year Forty-One: The Handler**

The Handler found him on his fifty-fourth birthday, and somehow Five didn’t believe that was a coincidence. It wasn’t a test, he didn’t think, but maybe an acknowledgement of something, though he had no idea of what. A statement, in any case. She had a strange sense of humor, that woman, or maybe Five just didn’t get people anymore. 

“We’ve had our eye on you for quite some time,” she said, and all he could think was, _and you didn’t do fuck all to help me, did you?_ He’d gone through some truly horrific shit and, apparently, the Commission had been highly entertained by his suffering. He was going to remember that. 

He had to go with her. What else could he do? He hadn’t cracked the math in forty-one years, because he was lacking input. He could time-jump a whopping week back and forth, anything else required preparation and a grasp of the mechanics that he simply didn’t have yet. He wasn’t going anywhere without help. And here was someone who talked about time travel like it was something common, something she knew plenty about. Did she sound insane? Absolutely. Insane and homicidal to boot, but frankly you could say that about him as well. 

He wanted to ask about taking Dolores with him, but one look at that amused, arrogant face and he knew she was waiting for the request just so she could laugh about it. This wasn’t a mission that included faded old mannequins with a snarky sense of humor and a love for sequins. The offer was for him and for him alone. 

Go, Dolores said. I’ll be all right. I’ve gotten tired of all the traveling anyway. I’ll just stay here and relax for a while. 

“Dolores…” he said, helplessly, and the Handler’s mouth twitched into a grin, her eyes widening with anticipation. 

Don’t give her the satisfaction, Dolores hissed, uncommonly forceful. My road ends here and we both know it. Don’t let her mock us. Pretend I’m nothing to you and when the time comes, think of me when you kill her. 

He only nodded in reply. Of course he would. And if everything went the way he planned, Dolores wouldn’t be lying here for long. She, and all this, would blink out of existence and turn into a better world. A world where his family was alive and Dolores was dressed prettily and sitting in midst of her sisters to be admired by everybody. Fuck the Commission. _All of this, it was supposed to happen_ , his ass. Those were the words of the kind of asshole who loved watching people struggle through the aftermath of the apocalypse without having to suffer through it themselves. 

“Let’s go then,” he said, proud of how firm his voice sounded. “Who do you want me to kill?” 

The Handler cooed. “Oh, aren’t you adorable?” She hefted the heavy suitcase in her hand. “There’ll be plenty of people for you to kill. But first, we have to make you… presentable. Teach you the basics. It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

“The basics?” he asked, confused. 

“How to drive, for one,” the Handler explained with a derisive little sniff. “Basic hygiene. How to blend in with people. How to not look like a crazy survivalist.” She chuckled at her own joke and gestured around her as if to prove a point. “You’ve been writing all over everything for years now. We’ll get you set up with a nice notebook and a pencil or something. And a suitcase, until you’ve mastered your talent. I’m sure that’ll be soon enough, once you get a few hints about how this all works.” 

She does love to hear herself talk, doesn’t she, Dolores snarked. 

“Are there any others who can do what I can do?” That might become a problem. If the Commission time-traveled using some sort of _tech_ —he eyed the suitcase speculatively—then he could work around that. Natural talents like him, on the other hand…

“No, no, you’re _special_.” The Handler waved a dismissive hand. “You think we recruit just anybody? You’ve got _potential_. With my help, you’ll come a long way, you’ll see. It’ll be extraordinary.” She beamed at him. “Enough talk. Let’s go, chop chop! Unless you want to say goodbye to your mannequin first?” 

Dolores huffed. Bitch. Don’t you dare, Number Five. We’re better than that. We’re better than her. 

“I’m good,” Five lied, but he stole a last glimpse at Dolores before the Handler hooked her arm under his elbow and tugged him away. He could’ve sworn she waved at him, just a tiny twitch of a movement, but that could’ve been a trick of the light. 

He breathed in deeply, straightened his shoulders, and followed the Handler into the glorious past.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback Note: Okay. Just so you know: I read every comment and I treasure every kind word. I’m pretty crappy at replying, because of who I am as a person, but I’ll find the time to check in now and again and even if I don’t manage to say it to each and every one individually:
> 
> **Thank You.**
> 
> Whoever you are, if you took the time to drop me a line, if only to let me know you had fun – I can pretty much guarantee you made me smile a big, dopey smile and made me feel awesome. I'd be lying if I claimed feedback didn't make my heart go pitter-patter with excitement. I'm a writer for a reason. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to know that I managed to reach out and touch somebody with my words, just a little.
> 
> So if you decided to let me know you enjoyed my writing: _Thank you._ *tacklehugs*  
> And if you enjoyed my writing but didn't feel like leaving feedback: That's cool, too. *g* Glad you liked it.  
> And if you _didn't_ enjoy my writing… uhm. Why are you still reading?


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